


Princess, Aim Low

by inbox



Series: Psychic Load [7]
Category: Cable (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, Punisher (Comics), Wolverine (Comics), X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Body Hair, Cheating Fantasy, Cock & Ball Torture, DUMB & DUMBISHER, Embarrassment, Feminization, Fingerfucking, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Infidelity Fantasy, M/M, Mild Cock & Ball Torture, Mild Feminization, Mild Stink Kink, Muscles, Penetrative Sex, Prostate Massage, Rimming, Scars, Size Difference, Sweat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 10:49:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20274688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inbox/pseuds/inbox
Summary: There are only two reasons for Frank Castle to be parked up at the front bar in The Princess, sweaty and huge and babying a lite beer: he wants a fight or a fuck. Logan has a preference for which one he'd prefer, but there's no shame in being greedy enough for both.





	Princess, Aim Low

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SenkoWakimarin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/gifts).

“What's a pretty thing like you doin’ in a place like this?” 

Okay, so not his finest line. Nowhere near his best work. It does, however, give him the result he intended: Frank Castle’s big broad shoulders tensing up and the muscles in his neck going as hard as corded wire, before the entire mountain of beef incrementally loosens by degrees as he acknowledges Logan leaning against the bar beside him. 

Not much of an acknowledgement, mind you. A slight lift of his chin and a flick of his eyes, assessing and cautious. 

“Patch.”

“Good to see you too, Frank. Beer?”

He holds up his sweating bottle of lite beer, barely drunk down to the label. “I'm sorted." 

“Wouldn't be much of a host if I didn't treat you at least once,” he says, ignoring him. “Just to show no hard feelings.”

Frank snorts at that. The last time they met was in New Mexico where the two of them brawled with each other for the first day, fucked like rabbits all night, then fought most of the town the next morning. Before that it was in Siberia, both of ‘em chasing the same bioweapons dealer and tussling a small militia before breaking into some remote hunting cabin to beat the weather. Using the flimsy justification of staying warm to fuck on the floor in front of a roaring fire was a perk of job completion, as far as he was concerned. 

Giving the big guy a lift on the Blackbird afterwards and listening to him grunt with every patch of turbulence was just a bonus. He'd felt sorry enough for him to suck his dick while passing over the lights of Paris though, so in the long run he figures they paid out equal. 

So yeah, nothing to hold a grudge over. Not anywhere near his top ten, an opinion probably shared by the big unit all hunched over up on the chair next to him.

“As much ice as you can fit in a glass,” Castle finally says begrudgingly. Like he’s being bullied into it, the big baby. “If you're offering.” 

“Frankie, Frankie,” he says, getting the bartender's attention with a slight nod. “Soda water and ice for my special guest, darlin’,” he says, before turning his attention back to Frank. He knows Frank well enough to know how he likes his nights to go: a drink then a water, one after the other, carefully rationed. “Don't tell me you've lost your taste for humidity.”

Castle smells like he's been in the wars already, a three day mix of sour adrenaline and spent brass and the Madripoor crab curry he ate right before he showed up at The Princess for what, Logan hoped, was a fight or a fuck or both. 

“Rather be in Brooklyn eating a deli sandwich.” He takes a swig of his beer and pushes his hair from his forehead, thick dark strands stuck down in sweaty curls. “Don't know how you stand this shithole in summer.”

Logan grins with just a few too many teeth, and takes a chance on resting his hand on the small of Frank’s back. “That's what my birthday suit is for.” He accepts his fresh bottle of beer with a nod and licks up the foam that's starting to spill over down the neck. Frank watches his mouth then looks away fast, like he's gonna get chastised for staring. 

“If you're really suffering I could be persuaded to show you my suite upstairs. Got a nice big fan up there and everything.” 

“Yeesh,” says Frank dryly. “That was bad.” 

“Yeah, well,” says Logan, unoffended. He strokes his thumb over Frank’s spine, up and down, brushing against the hard knobs of bone. “No point in wasting my A-grade material on a sure thing.” 

“Not tonight honey,” he says. “I got a headache.” He takes a long chug of his beer and smirks from behind the bottle. 

There's a hot scent of want starting to leech outta Frank’s skin, gathering warm ‘round his neck and pooling at his collar. He smells sweaty and sour and musky, and Logan smirks on the inside when he sees the big bad Punisher’s ears turn bright red even as he scowls at him, clearly remembering that Logan can read him like a book with one delicate sniff. 

Logan takes a deep breath, his expression twisted up into a performative look of deep thought. “If you say so,” he says. “Reckon your pussy says otherwise though.”

He grins as Castle chokes on his beer, scandalised. 

“Have you been speaking to Cable?”

Logan stares at him, blank. “Slim’s boy? What's that gotta do with anything?”

“Nothing,” he says. “You gonna take me on a tour or what?”

Logan gives Frank a look, met back with carefully forced blankness. “Huh,” he says eventually, if just to break the standoff. “Did you pack an armoury in that bag at your feet or are you travelling light?”

“Nothing that’ll upset the management,” says Frank, recovering quicker than Logan was expecting. “C’mon _ Patch. _ Why don't you show me the sights.” 

They make the first few flights before Logan stops them ‘round the corner of the staircase, shoving Frank’s thin damp cotton shirt up his chest and bunching it under his ‘pits and leaving it there. Frank's sweating hard, beads of wet pearling up down his chest even as Logan blows at ‘em to make his skin goosebump and his nipples harden. 

“Jesus Frank,” he says, voice muffled as he follows the curve of Frank’s pec, licking up every salty sweat track he can reach. “You fuckin’ stink.”

“Haven't had time to pretty up for you.” He grabs Logan by the hair, pulling hard. “Only been in-country three days.” 

“Three days to swing by the bar? Shameful, Castle.” 

“Some of us work for a living.”

He laughs, looking up at him. “Glad to be your R&R then.” He noses away the thicket of curly dark hair from around Frank’s nipple and latches on with a grunt, sucking hard enough that there's no way it ain't gonna hurt. Castle’s thick fingers dig into his scalp and claw at his hair, almost pulling it out by the roots as he puts teeth to the hard nub and doubles down.

The noise he makes at that is so sweet, no one on earth would believe it came from a hardass like Castle. A soft little inhale of breath, half gasp, half _ oh _!; a noise unbelievably hot coming from such a big hard-hewn lump of teak like Castle. 

Castle arches his back and pushes his tits into Logan’s face, and boy oh boy, ain't that a pretty sight. Just how he likes it. Castle is huge and as ugly-handsome as he is prickly, but together they've done this dance enough over the years that he knows that he's a big slut who likes it to hurt. Logan can maul those fat pecs and smack his balls and squeeze his dick and Castle will squirt like a messy bitch in heat and get hard all over again for a thank you. 

He rewards him for being compliant, groping at him through his trousers, feeling up the thick shaft of Frank's dick as he chubs up under his fingers. He squeezes hard and Frank makes a pathetic breathy noise that goes straight to Logan's head, straight to his own dick pressed hard to his zip. 

“Up,” he says, reluctantly letting those gorgeous tits go with a noisy pop of his lips. “Get upstairs so I can fuck the stupid outta you.”

One of the privileges of throwing most of his money into the expensive money pit of The Princess is that he’s given himself a bed in one of the few places in Lowtown that regularly gets a breeze off the water. There are big wooden shutter windows that he opens with a flourish, showing off a nice view from five stories clear of the noise on the street. He smirks on the inside when Castle drops his bag and looks around with interest, staring at the big shower just visible behind a slat door like it’s the Virgin Mother herself offering him all the guns, dick and money he ever wanted. 

He clicks on the big ceiling fan to get some air moving. The noise rouses back Frank to life and he starts guiltily, like he’s been eyeballing something forbidden.

“You're doing good for yourself.”

“S’nice thing about playing dead, Frank. No one hassles you about wasting money on life's pleasures. I recommend it.” He offers Frank a cigarillo and shrugs when he declines. “No one tells me to be restrained and sensible. Smoke all I want, drink all I want.” He shakes out his match and tosses it into the potted plant under the windowsill. “Fuck every pretty dick-hungry misfit who shows up on my doorstep.”

Castle makes a show of looking behind himself, then points at his own chest. “Can't mean me.”

“Oh yeah,” he says, breathing a hazy pall of smoke into Frank's face. He gets his hands on Castle's belt buckle, undoes it carefully. “I _ especially _ mean you.” 

Frank helps him undo the double hook on his fly, the habitual scowl on his face slackening slightly as Logan feels him up through his zip then pulls his nice fat dick out to hang stiff and free. The smell of stale sweat thickens in the air as he jerks him off nice and slow, his foreskin sliding smooth and easy with the beads of wet starting to drip from his slit and smear over Logan's fingers. 

“I gotta wash up,” says Frank, a token protest at best, chin dropping as he looks down at Logan's thick fingers wrapped ‘round his dick. “I stink.” 

“Yeah you do,” says Logan. He doesn't stop jerking him off though. The half smoked cigarillo sails into the potted plant as he leans forward and up, getting his face into the damp stained cotton of Frank's pit and breathing in deep. “You fuckin’ reek.” 

He sniffs harder, reading Frank like a book. The no questions asked boarding house where he slept last night, and the cheap washing powder on the cheap bed sheets, his layers of ineffectual antiperspirant in lieu of showers. The crab curry and Tsingtao for dinner clashing bad against an ugly combination of the hazelnut protein bar and the Ripit he drank for breakfast. Old adrenaline too, one massive spike still leaking out of his pores. Maybe eighteen hours ago.

He kinda wants to ask about it, but… not now. Not when he can feel Castle’s big slow heart thump under his ear a tick faster than usual, the way his breathing gets a lil’ shaky when Logan twists his wrist and works Frank's foreskin back and forth. 

Logan feels the muscles against his cheek slowly, carefully tense up and flex as Castle's big broad hand - slowly, carefully - rests on his neck, elbow out, giving him room to get even closer under his arm. He sucks the damp creased cotton into his mouth and lets out a heartfelt groan as the salt of old sweat and alkaline tang of antiperspirant blooms across his tongue. The noise he makes is instinctual and raw, an animal growl deep in his chest. 

Frank’s hand tightens on his neck. The temptation to shiver in pleasure is there, blind instinct to encourage that hand up into his hair and scratch at his scalp, but he quashes it down hard. Castle is - is, was, will be - capable of enacting such terrible violence on him. Having that murderous hand, one he knows can snap his neck, resting so gentle over his spine is a secret little thrill that makes him breathe harder, grip that stocky cock harder. 

Doesn't matter that he’d heal back up in a day or two, torn spinal cord and crushed cartilage knitting itself back together cell by cell until he could come back swinging and ready to pay back the insult threefold. It's the _ implication _ of the threat, the leashed power behind that hard callused hand that gets Logan warm under the collar. 

Lotta people can, and have, given Logan physical hell over the years. Castle happens to be one of the very few of ‘em with no magic shit, no mutant shit, no otherworldly shit. Castle is just some guy, unaugmented and plain, whose heart rate never changes a bump when Logan’s got three claws popped at his throat and an eyeline blocked by enraged animal instinct, but pumps a lil’ bit faster when he's getting his dick handled by the same animal. 

Why _ wouldn't _ Logan find that appealing?

They stand there for a good few minutes, Frank breathing heavy as Logan luxuriates in the heat of Frank's skin, reacquainting himself with the familiar stink of someone he's fought against, fucked, and fought _ with _ for too many years to count. 

Finally, voice scratchy, he tugs at Logan's hair and yanks him back, chin forced up as he looks up at Frank’s sweaty collar and shiny face. “You gonna let me wash up?”

“Go on,” he says, taking a step back and spreading his hands wide like a magnanimous showman to indicate the slat bathroom door. “Take a shower. Just make sure you get nice and clean where it counts for me.”

Frank doesn't rise to the bait, though the pink on his ears says that Logan's hit the mark with unerring accuracy. Castle didn’t come for here for a fuck, but he’s not stupid enough to turn it down now that it’s unambiguously on the table. Big dumb Frank wants to get that ugly spike of adrenaline knocked outta his head in one way or another, and walking into The Princess was always gonna pay off one way or another for him.

Lucky for him Logan's feeling in a generous mood, and it’s too damn hot to go brawling on the streets tonight.

The big fella strips at record speed in the wide open bathroom, sweaty clothes dumped on the floor as he steps under the barely tepid shower with a heartfelt groan of appreciation. He looks at Logan’s cheap bar soap with a judgemental eye then starts methodically washing himself from the ground up. 

“So,” Logan says from the next room, popping the top on a fresh beer and leaning against the door. “Why'd you bring Cable up? Didn't think you ran in the same circles.” 

“Mind your business.” Even through the misted water and Imperial Lather he can smell the sudden spike of heat rolling off of Castle’s skin. 

“Don't lie to me,” he says. “You know I can tell when you're trying t’ play coy, _ Francis._”

Frank ignores him, one shoulder braced against the tiles as he soaps up one leg then the other. 

So be it. Logan is patient. Actually that’s a lie through and through, but he’s patient enough when it suits him. He waits it out until Frank is rinsing dirt out of his hair, eyes closed and chin tipped up, as unguarded as Logan's ever seen him outside of the hard end of a good fuck. Being able to a moment to admire the heavy lines of Castle's body, thick and scarred and solid, without Frank glaring suspiciously at him? Well, that's just a convenient side benefit. 

He quietly sets the lid down on the toilet and takes a seat, sipping his beer and indulging in his private show. He watches the water run clean down his chest, through the thick dark hair covering his belly, streaming in rivulets down the hang of his half-hard dick and heavy balls. 

“You fucking Slim’s kid, Frank?”

Castle startles and snorts a heap of water, choking and spitting. He wipes his nose as he glares at him, big dark brows beetled together in a scowl. 

Logan gives him a big shiteating grin. “Knew it.”

“You don't know dick.”

He grins even wider, all teeth. “Guessed it the second you got your skirts twisted down at the bar. Jesus Castle, you don’t aim low do you?”

“Got you if I wanna aim low,” he says, and makes a show of going back to washing days of grime off himself. “You gonna let this go or is this your comedy routine for the rest of the night?” 

“Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to, darlin’.” He takes a deep pull off his beer then leans over, knocking it against the shower door and handing it to Castle. He looks at the bottle with suspicion before shrugging and finishing it in long chugging swallows. 

Logan watches the rise and fall of his throat, and thinks about the time Castle sucked him off on the bottom bunk in a cramped passenger berth of a cargo ship somewhere on the transit out of Guyana, showing him his tongue afterwards to prove that he's a good boy who never spits. 

“So,” he continues, sitting back on the lid with his shoulders to the cistern. “You got a taste for us fancy types now, or…?”

“Christ, you’re a pain,” he mutters. “We met by accident. One thing leads to another, we do some jobs together. That’s it.”

“Like hell.” He gestures at Castle, _ go on_, a loose wave of his hand.

“Could’ve sworn you never used to be such a gossip.”

“Not a gossip. Just interested in the mechanics of the thing. Suppose you are his type.” Logan allows himself a good long look at Castle, toe to tip, admiring the way the muscles in his thick arms bunch and flex as he soaps up his cock and washes his balls. “He's always liked men that could sit him on his ass.”

“Suppose that's the voice of experience?”

Logan makes a noise, _ tsk tsk tsk. _ “I don't kiss and tell, bub.”

There's a long pause as Castle tries to stare him down. Normally it'd work easy. He's never liked getting stared down. Brings up the animal in him, makes the hair on the back of his neck prickle. This time though, he's bolstered up by the goal of getting Frank to crack so he holds it, unblinking, ‘til the big guy gives up and looks away. 

“Dunno what it is.” Frank shrugs, fists his dick a couple of times. He almost - almost - looks faintly embarrassed. “It's fun. Been good, having some fun. He fucks great too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He gives him a sideways look. “Last time he, uh.” He puts the soap bar back on the rusting shower caddy, then immediately picks it back up again. “Last time he called me his wife.” He blurts the words out so fast Logan almost misses them.

Frank snaps his jaw shut with an audible click of his teeth and stares daggers at him, daring him to laugh. 

Logan pauses, delicately waiting for the other shoe to drop, and shrugs. Not that weird, really. He's said worse in the heat of the moment. Not that Castle deserves to know all his secrets, but hell, he's said nastier in the back of a troop transport with his hand shoved rough and dry down Cable's tac pants, and that was on a perfectly normal Wednesday. “Not that shocking, Frankie.”

The strange hot scent he can smell oozing off Frank, the tickle in the back of his nose that's been building for minutes now, he finally places it: it's excitement, the smell of a secret that Frank has been nursing for long enough that he's grown attached to it. 

It smells like hot glass. Like a marble that's been left in the sun, soaking up the heat from a city of dirt and concrete and asphalt. It's the secret little token that Frank's been carrying in his pocket, every day glazed a little more with the heat of the city. 

“It's not the wife thing,” he says, wisely skipping past that bloom of shameful pride that cascades off him at that, _ the wife thing. _ “It's… what?”

“No, its…,” the frustration in Frank's voice is palpable. He shrugs and stares at the soap like he's gonna glare a hole straight through it. 

Kinda sweet, a big unit like Castle going bright red like a kid so eager to share a secret that he's ready to explode, ‘cept it's tempered by whatever adult mortification he's got stewing away. Logan's not shuttered enough to pretend that he doesn't find Frank smoking hot most of the time but this, right here, this huge guy squirming over this secret _ thing _ that he's obsessed with? It's irresistible. 

If it was anyone else he'd assume it was something on the milder side, like getting pissed on for the first time and having an awakening of some kind. Castle might have the aura of someone terminally repressed who thinks fucking with the lights on is deviant sexual behaviour, but that's about as far from the truth as it was possible to get. Frank is, in a word, a slut, and a fun one at that for anyone patient or stupid enough to crack his shell. He likes fucking and he likes getting fucked, and he's got the same weird attitude to pain that anyone who willingly exposes themselves to it enough gets after a while. In Logan’s experience people either get hooked on pain, or start thinking about pain as something to eroticise, or blow their synapses out trying to tame the swooping floaty high of adrenaline. 

He's not really sure where Frank falls on that scale, beyond knowing that more’n a few times Frank has shot his smarts outta the tip of his dick _ and _ needed an ice pack on his balls.

Cable’s just a freak about using his brain when he should be using his cock. Short of Frank realising that he's on a hair trigger ‘cause someone rubbed one out on his feet or that Cable’s got him hook line and sinker for playing bad dog humiliation games, he stumped as to what might Cable might be party to that's got Castle twisting himself up in knots so tight he can smell it, broadcasting his painfully Catholic sense of guilty indulgence as loud as if he was shouting about it. 

Something he's deep into, but something he thinks Logan is gonna hold over him. 

Something…

Well. _ Goddamn. _

He blinks and leans forward, ready to sniff the truth straight from the source. “Frank, are you sayin’ Cyke’s kid likes playing pretty girl with you?”

Castle goes bright red. 

No amount of bluster can hide the way Castle's dick has filled out at the conversation, hanging full and heavy between his thighs. Logan raises an eyebrow, nods at his cock. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

He twists the water off and stands there under the dripping shower like a huge wet cat, beet red, hands clenched up useless by his side. “Never should've come up here. Every fucking time you do this to me.”

Logan laughs at him and holds up a towel, watching with naked appreciation as Frank sulkily snatches it from him and roughly dries himself off. “C’mon. What is it, Mrs…? He’s got eighteen names, you gotta give me a clue.” 

His reply is muffled by the towel over his face. “Summers,” he says again, tired of Logan saying _ what? _“What else would it be?”

This time Logan really does his best to hold back his bark of laughter as he strips off his own clothes, soft worn jeans and a stained white tee wadded up and tossed in the corner to become tomorrow's problem. “What do I know? I’m here to fuck you, not give you couples counselling. Less of his family tree you know, the better. I’m just saying you might wanna ask him about the mortality rate on the Mrs Summers title though. Bit of advice from me to you.”

He takes the towel out of Frank's hands, tossing it out of reach. The water beading down Frank's chest breaks and smears as he pushes his pecs together and licks up his cleavage with a leer. 

“Just like that?” 

“Yeah,” says Logan, looking up at him. “Just like that.”

“He eats me out,” says Frank, one finger pushing back on Logan's forehead. “So that's the minimum I expect now.”

“I've eaten your ass plenty of times.” 

Frank shrugs. “Maybe I got standards now. Try treating me nice.”

“Nice.” Logan gets a handful of Frank's balls and put the squeeze on, just hard enough to be on the soft side of hurt. “This kinda nice?”

“Yeah,” says Frank, voice going thin. “You know how I like it.”

“Yeah,” he says, smug. “I do. Probably better than he does. Now shove those tits together, Frank.” 

There is something unmatched about getting his face square between Frank Castle’s pecs. He's fucked a lot of hardbodies over the years, fellas who juice up and sculpt themselves into having a perfect physique, but Castle is legit. He's got real muscle earned the hard way; thick meat on a big ol’ body that's as solid as he needs to be to fight and survive. Logan can feel Castle shoving his pecs together and pillowing them up firm against his cheeks, his skin cool from his shower and thick with hair that's snagging and catching at his own whiskers. 

Delightful. De-fucking-lightful. 

Castle’s stocky cock is a heavy weight between them, starting to smear wet against Logan's belly. He's never met a fella who gets wetter than Frank Castle, his red ugly dick running like a tap when he's excited. 

He's got half a mind to suck Frank off and get him all worked up, take him all the way to orgasm then pull back at the last second to watch him fuck into thin air and shoot a load all over his own thighs. Good thought. Worth considering. Almost as good as the idea of sitting on that wet dick and taking him for a ride. 

He peels himself away with one last mean twist of Frank’s nipple and takes a seat on the cool wooden daybed, legs outstretched on the thin rattan mat, a couple of pillows at his back and up against the headboard. He finds a pump bottle of lube from the side table and pointedly places it at his thigh, right in Frank’s line of sight, and pats his lap. “C’mon. Up.”

“I'm not a dog,” says Castle pissily. 

“Hands and knees,” he says, ignoring him. “Back up on me. I wanna see that cheating married pussy nice and close.”

Castle dithers for a moment at the edge of the day bed, every line of his body broadcasting his discomfort with the indignity Logan’s asking him to perform. “Gonna check my prostate while you're at it?”

“If you want,” he replies breezily. “Was thinking I'd rather lick you, though. But if you wanna play doctor, I’m sure I can--”

Frank's displeased muttering cuts him off and he grins with too many teeth as the big guy gets on the bed and sits over his thighs with a grunt. 

Castle's back is a mess, his skin knotted with a patchwork of old injuries sewn up with aesthetics a long way down the priority list. He can spot a couple of marks with his own signature, three neat slices an inch apart sweeping down his flank and nicked over his shoulder. 

He’s always liked looking at Frank's skin, touching it. His own body is always gonna heal over everything eventually, no matter how deep and jagged and theoretically fatal. God knows Castle himself has carved him up more than a couple of times, done things to him that shoulda left any man dead. 

Castle though, he wears every single scar like a tattoo, marks and burns and ugly bullet roses branded indelibly onto his mortal human skin. It's a testament to how hard the fucker is to kill. Even his own son couldn't kill Frank for good, and god knows the little asshole had come the closest outta everyone on this bastard planet. 

“You done staring?” Castle rests his hands on his thighs, big fingers spread wide. He doesn't dignify Logan by looking back over his shoulder. 

“Nope.” Logan digs his knuckles down the side of Frank's spine, scraping downwards until he can grope at the hard muscle of his ass. “I like taking my time to see the sights when I get a pretty girl on my lap.”

“Shut the fuck up,” says Castle testily. “Never shoulda opened my mouth.”

“Nuh-uh,” counters Logan, taking another pass down the broad back in front of him, lingering equally over the thick muscles and ugly puckered scars. “That's the hottest thing anyone has said to me in months. You getting off on being Mrs Homemaker getting your cunt wrecked? Goddamn Castle.”

This time he does turn around to stare daggers at Logan. “Either eat it or fuck it or do something, else I'm leaving.”

“Hands and knees,” he says. “Shoulders to my shins, ass in the air.”

Castle obliges with a muttered complaint, his spine making an ugly popping noise as he bends over. 

Logan parts his ass without preamble, spreading him wide so he can get a good look at Castle. “Shoulda got you to shave,” he says, thumb on each side of Castle's hole, pulling him wide. “Reckon you'd be perfect all silky smooth for me.”

An acrid note of embarrassment starts to leak from Castle's pores. 

“Not that I don't like you as it is, darlin’. You know I'm always ready to get you wet for me, bush or not. But I reckon I could eat your snatch like a three course meal if you made yourself extra smooth.”

He can hear Castle draw a breath, ready to snap out _ shut the fuck up _ or _ piss off _or whatever else is percolating to the top of his head, but it all dissapates on a wheeze as Logan spits on his asshole with pinpoint accuracy and eats him out with unabashed relish. 

They've fucked enough over the years that he knows just how Frank likes it. Big flat licks over his asshole, the occasional sharp jab of his tongue. He grinds his face from side to side and hums into his skin until Castle is clenching under his mouth, lets the stubble on his chin rub against the back of Castle’s balls until the fragile skin chafes red and borderline raw. 

“Delicious,” he says with a smack of his lips. “Sweetest pussy I've eaten in months, Mrs Summers." 

And god, Castle loves it. He's always loved this, Logan rimming him rough, but tonight he's crazy for it, whining soft under his breath and grinding back onto Logan's face. That thick scarred back arches and flexes as he spreads his thighs wider and digs his toes into the rattan bed, searching for more leverage. Every time Logan pulls back to get his breath he calls him a cheating homewrecker, a wandering wife so dick-drunk she can’t keep herself straight. Castle gets more frantic. His dick drips wet all over Logan's lap, big hands holding onto Logan’s ankles in a way that'd bruise black’n’blue on any mortal man.

“This good for you, Frankie?”

“Yeah,” he pants out, stupid and desperate. “You know it is.”

“Y’know,” says Logan slyly, “I reckon there's something better’n being someone's housewife, Castle.” He pauses to take a deep breath, savouring the thick smell of hot want and embarrassment and dumb animal hunger rolling off Castle, heady and rich. “Princess of The Princess has a nice ring to it.” He fondles Frank’s balls, already high and firm, and squeezes them with a mean twist of his wrist.

Castle whines in the back of his throat when Logan digs in his fingers, caging his testicles in a vice, and his dick drips even wetter. “Shut up,” he whispers, face all red and shiny. “Shut the fuck up, jesus.”

“Reckon I could make you the starring attraction downstairs,” he continues, turning his attention back to Frank's hole, spit-shiny. He sucks his thumb wet and forces it in without preamble, closing his eyes for a second to keep his calm when Frank obediently relaxes and lets him in. “The Princess of The Princess tossed over the bar with his panties shoved to the side, wet and ready with a two drink minimum. You'd make the house a fortune.”

He can hear Frank whispering _ shut up shut up _ to himself like a mantra, grounding himself as he rocks back onto Logan jerky and uncoordinated. 

“All the dick you could handle and all the loads you can hold in that pretty lil’ pussy, Mrs Summers.” He can feel Frank tighten up around him and he yanks his hand free and hits him square in the meat of his right cheek. 

Not a dainty little slap for a princess. A punch, and a punch barely pulled at that. His knuckles pop as he shakes his hand out. “Loosen up,” he growls. “Just ‘cause we didn't do our usual fight before a fuck don't mean that you can get away with being a stubborn bitch, Princess.”

Frank breathes heavy and wet and there's a moment where he thinks he might've pushed him a little too hard and he's gonna get up and walk. He's always been a touchy one, Frank, and as much as Logan knows he gets off their usual hard-handed back and forth, there are plenty of times he’s got his feathers all ruffled and hauled ass with his dick still hard.

“Again,” he says. 

He slaps him, hard. Puts in as much force as he can in the space he's got, clips Frank half on the ass and half on his hip. Gotta hurt like hell, getting popped right on the bone like that. 

“_C'mon_.”

He punches him this time, square on the sciatic nerve. Frank's leg drops out from under him and he makes the sweetest painful moan when his dick glances sideways off Logan's thigh. He makes that noise again when Logan squeezes the already reddened skin of his ass, driving the ache deep and forcing a bruise to take root. 

“C’mon Princess,” says Logan. “Maybe I want to treat you nice, huh? Why you gotta come here and play rough with me?” 

Frank, to his everlasting credit, somehow manages to look both incredulous and haughty while looking over his shoulder with a snotty dripping nose and shiny red face. “Your brain finally rotted out?” 

He tries getting back into his knees but his leg is still hanging dead, useless ‘til his nerve comes back online. It’s pathetic, watching Castle slump and squirm. His dick is rock hard, spearing hard into the soft crease of Frank’s thigh when he grabs him by the hips and pulls him flat over his legs. He pushes Frank's deadened leg out to the side, hip joint popping in protest as he pushes him wide so he can look at Frank’s pink hole and reddened balls.

“You know, you're a goddamn rude thing for such a sweet looking lady,” says Logan. “Maybe--” he pumps the lube bottle and squirts it loud and wet and cold right onto Frank's asshole, “--I thought that I was gonna get a nice princess to sit on my lap tonight. I thought maybe your huge oblivious husband back home finally fucked some manners into you.”

He can hear Frank mumbling under his breath as he amuses himself with the slick slop of lube, letting it drip and slide down to Frank’s balls before scooping it back up to his hole, pushing it in with the flat of his thumb until he gets bored and shoves in two fingers with no niceties. 

Frank takes them with a grunt, breathing high and fast at the pressure until Logan’s knuckles bump hard against his rim. He sucks back a breath at the wrong time, coughing shallow, and god help him if the sudden unforgiving tightness around Logan’s fingers doesn't make him close his eyes in pleasure. 

“Goddamn Castle,” he says, pulling his fingers out slow and working them back deep again. “Jesus, you're like a vice. No wonder every man around is lining up for a shot at getting you pregnant, Princess.” 

Castle mumbles something into the space between Logan's calves and manages to get his leg back underneath him, shoulders down and his back bowed, pushing back against him. He finds his own rhythm on Logan’s fingers, taking a third thick finger before he’s properly ready, panting as a string of wet drips from his cock with every rock of his hips. 

He can hear Castle’s slow lazy orgasm start to build in the way he breathes, the way he grunts low and hitches his hips, forcing the angle so he’s getting his prostate rubbed just how he likes it. It leaches out of his skin, a steady heady smell of pleasure that gets in Logan’s nose and stiffens his dick even harder. 

He’s close, so damn close. So close Logan can feel him clench up on his fingers and smell the semen starting to drip from that thick ugly red dick.

Logan snatches his hand free and seizes Frank’s balls and _ pulls _.

“Fuck,” wheezes Frank. “Fuck, jesus.” He sounds like he’s going to cry, feet scrabbling on the rattan bed as he tries to follow the unforgiving pull down, down, down, enough to ease off the pressure. “Please.”

“Please what.” He squeezes his testicles until Frank sobs. “Please what, Princess?”

He knows Frank hates this bit. Everyone who has ever fucked Frank more than once probably knows how much he hates this bit, being made to say what he wants and commit whatever shit he’s got rolling around in that head of his. 

“Lemme cum,” he says after a couple of false starts. He looks over his shoulder at Logan, big blue eyes rimmed red and snot smeared down his cheek. “Please. I want… it’s good. Please.” He wails pathetic as Logan lets his balls go with one last tug, big shoulders heaving as he tries to get his breath back. 

Logan rubs his knuckles into the bruise blooming on Castle's asscheek, smooths his palms down Frank's sides. The muscles down his back twitch under his touch and he strokes ‘em again and again until Frank’s breathing easy, eyes closed as he rests his cheek on Logan’s bony shin. 

“You’re a piece of shit,” mumbles Frank.

“You know it. Beer?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

Frank barely moves as Logan disentangles himself from under his dead weight, still sacked out on his knees with his ass in the air and shoulders to the mat. It’s a good look for him. Normally he’s gotta work a hell of a lot harder to get Frank to the point where he dials back the hyperawareness and just allows himself to exist for a while. 

Maybe this shit with Cable - _ if _ it’s real, which he’s still not exactly convinced about - has done him some good. Playing housewife clearly agrees with Frank, or maybe Cable’s just real good at taking damaged fighting dogs and training them into channelling that rage into something more productive, or at least a sight lot more relaxing.

Shit, maybe he should look Cable up, see if he’s in the market for something a little more interesting than the occasional Blackbird handjob or quickie in whatever shitty rundown ass-nowhere country they both happen to be in. He’s got a lot of wild dog in him too, but unlike Frank he’s not inclined to get hard over being domesticated. It’s more of an interest in seeing if Cable’s any good at hauling on a leash, ‘cause god knows Logan is very, _ very _ good at straining against any collar any one has ever tried to put on him. 

“Quit staring.” Frank rolls onto his side, motions for Logan to hand over the bottle starting to sweat in his hand.

“I’ll stare all I want, Princess,” says Logan on autopilot. “Might be thinking about what I plan on doing to you next.”

Frank takes the beer with a grunt. “Was hoping you’d fuck me,” he says mildly, licking up the foam that’s spilled down the lip of the bottle. “If that doesn’t cut too hard into your busy schedule of being dead and all.”

“Keep that talk up and I really will throw you onto the bar downstairs.” He sniffs the sudden burst of shameful fascination that blooms off Frank with interest. “A little after hours party, huh? I’ll make sure only the biggest dicks and best fucks in town show up.”

“Christ, you never shut up,” says Frank, but there’s no heat in it. “Don’t drag me into your shit.”

“Princess of the Princess, Frankie herself. Or Francine. Nah, Frankie sounds better. ‘Best hole in Lowtown.’ What do you think?” 

“I think I get 40% of the door take,” says Frank mildly, and almost grins when Logan barks loud with laughter. 

“20%. This is doing you a favour.”

“35 and you get last fuck privilege. Reckon you’d be into that, right?” 

“You're driving a hell of a hard bargain for someone who keeps telling me to shut up.” Logan passes his beer from one hand to the other, wrapping his chilled fingers ‘round Frank’s dick. He’s still mostly hard, barely flagged at all even despite having his balls mauled and left unsatisfied after being yanked back from the edge of a satisfying orgasm. “Sure you’re not into this idea?”

“Got a war to finance,” breathes Frank, eyes drifting closed as Logan plays with his cock. He tugs at his foreskin and pinches gentle at the soft skin at the top of his balls, and listens to Frank’s breathing go short when he presses a nail to the delicate skin of his piss slit. “Got to… oh, shit. Do that again. Can’t be picky over how I make money.”

“Bet you Cable pays a good fee on those jobs, huh,” teases Logan. “All that money to shoot what needs shooting, _ and _ he gets to pound that sweet lil’ puss afterwards.”

That big roaring wave of hot scent rolls through the room again, a near-physical assault that fills his nose and goes straight to his dick. Frank stares him down hard when Logan forces a finger under his chin to make him look up, but he can’t hide from the invisible truth that’s leaking outta his skin, hazy and hot and giving away all his secrets. He’s excited by the idea. Embarrassed by it equally. A dirty thrilling little secret that he’s been nursing all this time, smelling like hot glass and the filthy city. 

A part of Frank Castle might like the money but he loves being a weapon for someone trustworthy enough to take that kind of control, and he _ loves _ being a perk of the job afterwards for Cable to use as he sees fit. 

“_Mrs Summers_,” he says, always delighted to have some new reason to wind Frank up. “Goddamn. You’re just full of surprises tonight, Princess.”

“C’mon and fuck me,” says Frank. “Just like this.” He nods over his shoulder, helpfully rolls his weight from hip to hip enough to make sure Logan’s got no excuse to not look at the finely sculpted muscles of his ass and the big ugly bruise blooming up on one cheek.

“Not like I got anything better to do right now,” says Logan, sounding a touch rough around the edges.

No amount of flippancy is gonna hide how much he’s into taking Frank like that, pushing him face down and rutting into him like some wild animal. Frank’s a pretty fuck face-to-face in a rough, hard-hewn way, but getting to watch that ugly scarred up back flex and move as he’s fucked into the floor, getting to watch those rough swollen knuckles blanch white as he scrabbles for leverage, watching his own dick sink into that gorgeous hungry asshole… 

“Thought you’d like that,” says Frank, unduly smug. “Like I said. If you’ve got nothing better to do right now.”

Logan doesn’t bother with pleasantries. He barely bothers to wet the lube again, smearing his dick with just enough fresh wet that he can get into Frank as fast and as deep as possible. Then he’s squatting over Frank’s big thick thighs and splitting his asshole wide with his thumbs while Frank wriggles restlessly and says _ c’mon hurry up fuck me _ like the petulant little spoiled princess he is, and Logan’s brain checks out for a while.

Castle is searing hot inside, soft and wet and good as he takes Logan’s cock in one stop-start drop ‘til Logan is deep in him and he’s near-growling under his breath about how good it is. 

He’s sticky-hot under Logan, skin sticking to the sweat beading Castle’s ugly patchwork back. He rolls his hips lazy and slow, feels Castle clutch blind at his thighs and make a low noise. 

“Gotta tell ya, Frank,” he says, digging his toes into the rattan mat to get leverage. “I missed this cunt. Rest o’ you I can take or leave, but--” 

“Jesus christ,” grumbles Frank. “You're gonna make me go soft.”

Logan snorts. Castle’s dick is an iron bar scraping against the bed every time he rolls his hips. It'd take a miracle for him to lose his erection, and if the good lord decided that was his fate, Logan knows all he’ll have to do is treat him mean and Frank’s big stocky cock would fatten right back up again. 

“He fucks you like this?”

No need to say who ‘he’ is. No idea why he’s even fixated on the idea, why the thought of being a better fuck - a deeper fuck, a rougher fuck, a meaner fuck, _ a better fuck _ \- than Cable, someone he only gets along with three days outta seven on a good week, but it’s stuck in his craw and he’s suddenly obsessed with the idea of Frank slinking back to New York with Logan’s cum deep in his guts. Being Castle’s dick-drunk secret while he goes off to play wife with someone else, jesus christ, what a thought. 

“No,” grunts Frank. He braces an arm against the foot of the daybed, trying to stop sliding down the bed with every deep slam of Logan’s hips. “Not… not like this.” 

“No shit, Princess.” He gets his hand on Frank’s head, pushes him into the mattress. He can feel the heat baking off Frank’s cheek under his fingers as he fucks him, hunched over his body and shoving into him sharp and fast. “You gonna see him after this?” 

“No.” Castle whines when Logan moves up an inch, jackhammering his prostate in a way that’s gotta be as painful as it is pleasurable. He can feel Frank tighten up around him, trying to get some resistance to the inexorable force shoving him up the bed. 

“Yeah, you are.” He hunches over more, thighs wide as he fucks him like a dog. He sniffs at Frank’s neck, sucks a big unmissable bruise into the soft skin under his ear. “You’re gonna call him and tell him I fucked you raw. You're gonna tell him I got you pregnant.”

“Jesus,” wheezes Castle. “Oh, _ Christ_.” 

“Are you--” he’s running out of breath, getting tunnel vision. Always gets lost in the weeds of animal instinct when he’s this close to blowing his wad, wild and feral, thinking about nothing more pumping a load into the hot huge body moaning like a bitch underneath him. “--you gonna do that for me, Princess? Gonna tell him you cheated with an animal and got yourself knocked up?”

“Yes, Jesus, just let me _ finish_.” Frank breaks off his whining with a bitchy broken high moan, _ ah-ah-ah_, as Logan bites at his neck and scents him and grunts wild. “I’m so goddamn close, just, please--”

He comes, and the world goes crystal clear clean for a beautiful second. Then Castle bucks up and nearly throws him clear, desperately trying to shove a hand under himself to get off. His hole throbs tight and Logan starts rutting into him again, little shoves, enough to remind Castle that he’s still deep in him and still hard in him and still nowhere near done.

“Don’t you dare,” he says, talking low and sweet into Castle’s ear as he reaches for the lukewarm beer on the bedside table, miraculously unspilled. He’s always so fuckin’ thirsty after he comes, ‘specially when someone really makes him work for it. He drains most of it in one wet swallow, spilling it down his chin and dripping between Castle’s shoulder blades. It catches at the scars there, three parallel lines, and he resists the urge to lap it up, sweat and beer both. “Hands off. You know I’ve always got more than one for you, _ Princess _.”

* * *

He pauses by Frank's dirt-crusted duffel bag, momentarily distracted from his goal of shouting down the stairwell for someone downstairs to bring up something to eat. There's a scent leaking from the nylon that tickles his nose, a thin wavering note under the heavy heat of Tiger Balm and cheap antiperspirant that’s always lingering ‘round everything Castle owns. Something out of place under the swampy scent of Madripoor mud and old sweat, something crisp and cold like hard light. 

Logan sniffs again.

“Fuck me,” he says, impressed. “It _ is _ Cable, isn't it?”

Frank looks up from the bed, stretched out under the fan all sleepy and slutty and ready to get fucked again. “Told you,” he says mildly. 

“Thought you were having some kinda fucked up fantasy. Hot as hell but like… pretend.”

Frank says _ mmmmm _ and rolls onto his back, hooking his hands onto the wooden rail of the day bed to stretch himself out. The muscles of his arms cord hard as he arches his back, the dark hair in his pits sweaty and stuck flat. “Still want me to go back and tell him some wild animal homewrecker did me good in Madripoor?”

For a second Logan pauses, genuinely indecisive. Then he grins, showing more teeth than would ever be strictly necessary. “You know what? Do it. Tell him Patch said hi.”

**Author's Note:**

> A happy birthday to Neoma who is funny, creative, and (this may be good or bad depending on your opinion of things) indirectly responsible for me finding some fun with writing again. I am officially yeeting this in your direction.


End file.
